


Silver Lining

by sly_as_an_alpaca



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Charms, Fluff, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hogwarts Library, M/M, Weasley Jumpers, draco's father being terrible as usual, lengthy descriptions of nature, literally just so much fluff, snape impressions, steak and kidney pie, this fic is so sweet it will give you cavities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 22:01:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8914507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sly_as_an_alpaca/pseuds/sly_as_an_alpaca
Summary: silver lining, noun. 1. a sign of hope in an unfortunate or gloomy situation; a bright prospect: "Every cloud has a silver lining."The war is over. Harry has fulfilled his purpose. There's nothing left for him to do-- and that's the problem. Maybe it's time to fix what's broken.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic would not have happened without this post from drarrysgirl on tumblr: http://drarrysgirl.tumblr.com/post/154551645096/i-day-dream-often-about-8th-year-drarry

The Great Hall had, for a large part of Harry’s life, been a representation of everything he loved; food, friendship, and magic. It was particularly beautiful today, the third week of their first semester back, the bewitched ceiling a beautiful and clear blue, almost sunset but not quite. The hall buzzed with life, and though the absences were glaring, the hall hadn’t felt this vibrant in a very long time. By all accounts, Harry should have been feeling refreshed. And he was, really.

Ron and Hermione bickered beside him over something they would soon forget. Ron cracked a smile and suddenly they were snogging quite enthusiastically. Harry turned away quickly. On his other side, Dean and Seamus sat very close together, speaking excitedly about some new Quidditch player, finally able to act like a couple now that they’d confessed their relationship to everyone and Ginny had won a frankly unsettling amount of money from Lavender Brown over the fact that they’d gotten together in the fourth year, not fifth. Their conversations always seemed so comfortable and easy. Not that Harry envied them, of course; he had wonderful friends who provided him with engaging conversation daily. But somehow it didn’t seem the same. 

Across from him, Neville messily slurped porridge over a disproportionately large Herbology textbook. His grades this year would decide whether he got to take over Professor Sprout’s post after her ever-nearing retirement. Luna, despite being a Ravenclaw, sat at the Gryffindor table next to him, providing helpful commentary on which plants could or could not fend off Wrackspurts. 

Harry heaved a sigh and poked unenthusiastically at a particularly wiggly piece of egg. It bounced at him indignantly. Even his eggs had a purpose, Harry mused morosely. The eggs were here to be eaten. Hermione was here to become Minister for Magic someday. Neville was here to become the Hogwarts Herbology professor. Ginny was here (on the other side of Luna, steadily snatching food off of her plate) to become a world-famous Quidditch player. But what was Harry here for? He’d done what he was meant to do. He’d killed the Dark Lord, he’d been the Chosen One that everyone expected him to be. But when was he supposed to _stop_ being the Chosen One? Where was the cut-off point? Fred’s funeral? His (surprisingly amicable) breakup with Ginny? Ron and Hermione's wedding? When was Harry going to stop being the Boy Who Lived and start just being Harry? The egg on his plate gave a sad little wobble. Harry speared it with his fork. 

In fact, the only person other than Harry who didn’t seem to be having their fairy-tale ending was--

Harry turned, eggs forgotten, to catch a glimpse of Draco Malfoy at the Slytherin table, pointy shoulder blades pointier than ever, poking at his own similarly wobbly eggs. He’d seemed almost as lonely as Harry lately. Not that he didn’t have friends. He still had Parkinson, but she was more distant now, and while he and Goyle were apparently still on speaking terms, they hadn’t been seen actually speaking since last year. Zabini sat by his side at the Slytherin table, but their conversation looked stilted and distant. Malfoy seemed more alone than he had ever been.

And, for the first time, Harry could relate.

—————————————

“Really, it’s not that difficult to understand,” Hermione huffed, walking a bit too briskly down the corridor, leaving Harry and Ron skipping awkwardly after her. “It goes Goblin Rebellion, then Elfin Rebellion, and _then_ Pixie Rebellion. Give Emily Pancakes, Ron, Give Emily Pancakes.” 

“Who is Emily?” Ron asked incredulously.

“It’s just an acronym, Ron. Emily isn’t actually-- oh, why do I even bother?”

“How come there are so many rebellions? Too many rebellions, if you ask me. If the damned Goblins would just shut their big mouths we wouldn’t have to be memorizing rebellions in the first place.”

“I won’t even try to unpack all of the species that would literally murder you for saying that.”

Harry sighed. They were off on one of their off little tirades again. He was starting to think it was their version of foreplay. He looked away and noticed that the portraits on the walls were considerably more sparse than before the Battle of Hogwarts. As he studied a fishing scene whose subject seemed to be more keen on tanning than fishing, someone very blonde crossed his line of vision. Malfoy again. He was as pointy and pale as ever, but looking at him now, Harry could tell he was no longer the boy who’d insulted Ron in first year. He now held himself with less arrogance and more sophistication, and he was more quietly cold than loudly judgemental, his hair loose and fine without its gel. 

He’d grown into the pointiness in particular, Harry noticed. What had seemed before to be an oddly sharp chin had filled out into his jawline. His nose was patrician, cheekbones well-defined, eyes as clear and grey as ever. Harry might even admit that he was conventionally attractive. Malfoy’s robes were buttoned all the way up to his neck and he walked with confident purpose, expensive shoes clicking down the marble of the corridor, bag swinging from his shoulder. 

Malfoy had a purpose, right?

Harry hadn’t thought about him that way before, he supposed. Malfoy hadn’t been the sort of person to have a purpose, or if he had been, that purpose had been insulting Harry. Oh, that sounded terrible now that he thought about it. Perhaps Malfoy did have a purpose and Harry just didn’t realize. Perhaps Malfoy wasn’t just there to be his enemy-- or, more accurately, his schoolyard rival. Before, Malfoy had simply been a character in Harry’s story, but now that the story was done, where did that leave him? He wasn’t bad and he wasn’t good, but was anyone, really? He was just a person, the same way Harry was.

Harry wondered what Malfoy’s purpose was. Surely he had one.

—————————————

Harry laid back on his bed staring at the ceiling, making shapes in the cracks and spots. He could see a rabbit and an owl. An envelope, by the corner. A smiling face, right in the middle; or was it frowning? A broom, directly above him. Well, either a broom or a bit of genitalia, depending on how one was feeling.

“Harry?” Harry jolted, sitting upright. Ron sat with a concerned expression on the bed across from him, the only other bed in the room. They had two-bed dorm rooms this year. Apparently the castle decided the eighth years needed some space after the events of the war. “All right, mate? You looked kinda out of it.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” said Harry, and thought of the broom on the ceiling. “Just need some fresh air is all. I think I’ll go for a fly.” Ron nodded and said something about bringing a coat; Hermione was rubbing off on him. Harry did grab his coat, and then his new Panther-model broom, its dark twigs gleaming invitingly, before heading out.

The castle had always been beautiful at sunset, and it was even prettier in early fall. Both combined lent Hogwarts castle an ethereal quality, reds and pinks contrasting sharply with the castle’s peaks and falls, shimmering in the lake wetly, backlighting the Whomping Willow’s swaying branches. The Forbidden Forest was blanketed in fall mist, light refracting through its leaves, and if you watched closely you could see the occasional scuttle or slither of some creature or another. Looking into the sky, Harry was left breathless by the blanket of clouds in every color imaginable and then some, rippling like a great sea, the sun behind them lending a stunning and sharp silver lining. He traced the silver lining with his eyes all the way across the sky, over the lake, through the Forest, along the castle, onto the Quidditch pitch-- and it was then that he saw him.

Draco Malfoy. Standing there with his gleaming Meteor Seven broom and gleaming white-blond hair, regarding Harry with the demeanor of a curious bear. 

“Malfoy,” said Harry.

“Potter,” said Malfoy.

“I was just about to go flying.”

“Were you really?” Malfoy raised an eyebrow, clearly trying not to smirk. “I couldn’t have guessed.”

“Well, I was,” Harry said a bit stupidly, trying to remain civil, or at the very least nonviolent. There was a tense and awkward pause. Malfoy cleared his throat, then mumbled something. “Sorry?” said Harry.

“Fancy a seekers’ game?” said Malfoy, not making eye contact.

Harry smirked. “You’re on.”

The game was like a breath of fresh air for Harry, the two of them zipping across the darkening sky with childlike enthusiasm, the kind that they’d had in first year before they got into the whole mess that led them here. Malfoy was smiling, his hair windswept, as he sped in front of Harry, arm outstretched and fingers straining for a flash of gold. And when Malfoy caught the snitch, Harry wasn’t even angry.

They landed and Malfoy whooped loudly, clutching the snitch and waving it above his head, robes disheveled and cheeks reddened. 

“Ha! I’ve caught it!” he shouted in glee, running up and holding it out proudly. “I beat you, Potter!” Harry couldn’t help it; he smiled. Malfoy frowned. “Well, where’s the excuses? The grovelling?” He put on a high voice in a middle-class accent and said, “Oh, Malfoy, I was wrong all these years, you are truly my superior. How can I ever apologize?”

Harry burst out laughing. “Was that supposed to be me?”

“That was spot-on, Potter, you just can’t appreciate superior impression skills when you hear them.” Malfoy pouted, indignant, and as he continued his Harry Potter impression, Harry just smiled wider. This was the longest conversation they’d ever had, and it was going rather well.

“You’re right,” said Harry. Malfoy fell silent. “You won, Malfoy. Fair and square.” Harry smirked and held out a hand. It sat there between them, heavy with conversations never had. Harry held his breath. For a moment they both just stared at the hand, at each other.

Then Malfoy took his hand, fingertips cold, the handshake firm. “Good game, Potter.”

They ended up eating dinner together that night, Harry sitting at the Slytherin table stiffly, and talked about silly things like classes and teachers. It was the most intriguing and comfortable dinner conversation Harry had ever had.

And afterwards, lying in bed, making more shapes in the dorm room ceiling, Harry realized he hadn’t thought about his purpose once.

—————————————

They had seekers’ games every few weeks. Harry was rusty, and Draco had obviously kept up with Quidditch practice while Harry was off living in a tent, so they were much more evenly matched. When Harry won they sat at Gryffindor, and when Draco won they sat at Slytherin. In theory, the overly energetic matches should have rendered them both exhausted, but with every game they played and every dinner they shared, Harry felt more energized. Talking with Draco was effortless. There was no logical explanation for it. Harry didn’t want one.

One afternoon, a couple months after their Quidditch games began, Harry sat on an armchair in the spacious Hogwarts library, crouched over a cryptic Charms textbook, light dappling in through the stained glass window behind him. He squinted, adjusted his glasses, and read the sentence for the third time. It didn’t make any more sense than the first. 

“Merlin’s tits, I hate that book. It’s written like a goddamn Lockhart novel in the form of a sixty-year-old woman’s vegan cookbook.” Draco Malfoy stood above Harry clutching a multitude of other Charms books, hair perfect as ever, tie loosened. The colored light separated his face into sections and glinted off of the polished buttons of his robe. He must have been studying for the Charms test, too. He looked slightly nervous, as if he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to speak to Harry outside of those nights they played Quidditch. 

“Did the sixty-year-old woman write the vegan cookbook or does she just own it?” asked Harry lightly.

Malfoy smiled and plopped into the armchair opposite him, setting his books down on the side table. “Depends. How many cats does she have?”

Harry chuckled, and nodded to the books. “Having as jolly a time studying for that test as the rest of us, are you?”

“Oh, yes, I’m having a blast,” said Malfoy, sitting back. “Forget about Christmas, this is all I need.”

“I want to throw this book out of that window and watch as it is slowly and meticulously devoured by the giant squid.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

“So,” Harry sighed, “Studying?”

“Studying,” Draco agreed.

The next day Harry was sitting in double Charms with the Slytherins, still feeling very much nervous but a good deal less violent in regards to the test. Draco was a surprisingly good study partner. He joked but stayed on track, and when Harry didn’t know something, Draco teased him but then helped out. He was nothing like Ron, whose focus was constantly diverted by Hermione or Quidditch or sometimes both.  

Yet Harry was still surprised when Draco walked into charms with his usual confident stride, threw his bag onto the desk next to Harry’s, and sat down without pause.

“You’re making yourself quite at home,” observed Harry.

“Of course,” said Draco. “Anyplace can be your home if you’re cocky enough.”

“Parvati Patil usually sits there.”

“Parvati Patil can find another seat, can’t she?”

Harry whizzed through that test more easily than he ever had before. Draco sat next to Harry every day in Charms after that. Harry wondered when Malfoy became Draco.

—————————————

After Charms one day, instead of walking to lunch with Ron and Hermione, Harry walked to lunch with Draco. As Draco demolished his plate of steak and kidney pie with the appetite of a juvenile rhinoceros, Ron leaned across the table to Harry and whispered loudly, “What is Malfoy doing here? Why is he with you all the time now?” 

Harry looked around and noticed that Ron didn’t seem to be the only one concerned for Harry’s safety. Dean and Seamus were whispering furiously and sending suspicious glances towards Draco. Ginny was glaring daggers. Neville looked up from the plant he’d brought to the table every minute or so, shook his head, then looked back down, muttering to himself. Hermione looked like she wanted to perform an encore of her infamous right hook from third year. Luna-- well, Luna was dissecting her steak and kidney pie with the concentration of a brain surgeon, but that was just Luna.

“Listen, Ron,” whispered Harry, “he’s not like he used to be. Draco--”

“Draco? Is he Draco now?”

Harry opened his mouth to explain how Draco had changed, but shut it quickly. Draco had changed his _behaviour_ , but had he changed his beliefs? Harry didn’t think he’d be talking to him if he hadn’t, but who could be sure? What if this was all just another plot of his? Well, that would be an odd plot, admittedly. Harry wanted to trust Draco. He wanted to believe he had changed. And Harry knew that this wasn’t the war anymore. Nobody was up to anything, and nobody wanted to kill him. There were no plans and plots. It was just him and Draco. They did say that the key to a good relationship is communication, though it felt rude to ask. 

Harry sighed and took a bite of pie, then promptly remembered that he hated steak and kidney. Draco looked over and laughed so hard that he choked on his food.

—————————————

They sat together at meals now, lunch and dinner morphing quickly to all three, and they switched tables depending on who won the argument that day. Their studying moved from the library to the eighth year common room when they didn’t feel like facing Madam Pince’s wrath, and the studying often turned into lounging.

This was one of those times. Draco was sitting back on the couch with a fancy-looking Potions tome and Harry was sprawled across it with his feet on Draco’s lap, attempting to merge his physical being with the cushions. 

“What?” exclaimed Draco suddenly. Harry jolted, snapping out of his treacle tart fantasy. Draco put on a silly accent even posher than his own and read, “ _Moonstone has the properties of inner growth and strength, and is therefore commonly used in Liquid Luck potions._ That is plainly wrong! This book is wrong! Sure, put moonstone in some Liquid Luck, see how lucky you feel when your skin turns purple. This stupid thing was seventy galleons, the least it could do is have some informational accuracy inside its gilded cover and ugly emerald inlay.” He snorted and threw the book to the floor. Something with the monetary value of a solid gold toilet seat fell off of it. “Whoever wrote this book has the potions knowledge of a first year Hufflepuff. Or an eighth year Harry Potter.” Harry sputtered indignantly and Draco snickered. “I knew that salesman was ripping me off.”

“Snape would have been livid,” Harry laughed, then quickly shut his mouth. He’d forgotten Snape had been very close with Draco. They had been close, and now Snape was dead and Draco probably didn’t want to think about it, much less talk about it, and oh, Merlin, Draco definitely hated him now--

“He would have been,” Draco said with a grin. He sat up very straight, put on the expression of someone who had just eaten a year’s supply of lemons, and said in a nasal voice, “These pathetic sea slugs would not know the uses of moonstone if a moonstone bit them on their big arses. If the author had been paying attention in my class he would have known that a Felix Felicis potion requires Ashwinder egg, not moonstone, and if I did not have a giant stick up my arse, I might not have cared this much.” 

By the end of this tirade, Harry was wheezing with laughter and clutching helplessly at his stomach. “Stop, stop! How on Earth, Draco? That impression was even better than Dean’s!” Harry finally caught his breath and sat up a bit to see Draco gazing down at him with wide eyes. Harry frowned. “You okay?” 

To Harry’s surprise, Draco’s face flushed a deep red as he snatched the potions book up from the floor. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Draco started doing a lot more impressions after that. He was oddly good at them, and Harry realized he always had been, though his making fun of McGonagall’s in-class hangovers was definitely more amusing than his impression of Harry’s fainting in third year. Draco had always been funny. He’d also always been witty and clever and great at Quidditch, but none of those things had really gotten through to Harry until now. Harry didn’t know if he’d always been this attractive, though. Maybe he had been, after all. Harry had certainly done a lot of staring sixth year. But that blinding smile was not one that had been directed in his direction before, and if Harry was being honest, when it was, he temporarily forgot how to form words. Draco always gave him that same smile after Harry laughed at one of his ridiculous impressions. Harry wasn’t sure why. He just didn’t want it to stop.

The question of Draco’s changed prejudices still remained, though.

—————————————

They took a walk after one of their seekers’ games. The two of them, bundled up in fall jackets and house scarves, walked the perimeter of the lake and the forest, the sun setting behind them, bickering about stupid things, bumping into each other and snickering. But Harry still had his conversation with Ron in his mind. His friends had every right to be suspicious of Draco. He’d done some terrible things.

“Potter,” Draco snapped. He still called him Potter when he was annoyed.

Harry looked over and Draco was frowning at him, backlit by the sunset, the tip of his nose red and his hair still messy from Quidditch. Harry’s breath caught, and he quickly looked down to the leaves crunching beneath his feet. “What?”

“Something’s on your mind.” Draco kicked at the leaves and some went flying into the lake. “Spit it out. You’re no fun when you’re distracted.”

“It’s nothing,” said Harry, and quickened his pace to walk the water’s edge. The lake was beautiful, rippling beneath chilly late fall wind, the squid splashing every so often. 

Draco jogged up beside him and looked at him quizzically. “Oh, come on, Potter, it can’t be that bad. Did you fail a test? Ace a test? Anger McGonagall? Did Granger and Weasley finally break up? It was bound to happen.” Draco chuckled. “What is it, then?”

Harry bit his lip, ran a hand through his hair. Draco cleared his throat and blushed, for some reason. Harry just had to say it, then. “Do you still think all those things you thought before? About muggleborns and-- and all that?” Draco stopped walking. Harry turned around to see him looking out to the lake, green and silver scarf pulled over his mouth, hands stuffed into his pockets. 

Draco heaved a sigh. “I’ve been cut off by my parents. They won’t pay for anything anymore.” Harry breathed out harshly, breath misting, and went to stand by his side. They looked out over the lake together for a moment, just breathing, and then Draco went on, “After the war, my father wanted to… do some bad things. To me. To himself. My mother stopped him, but Father wouldn’t stop yelling at me about this and that. Why didn’t I kill Dumbledore when I was meant to, why didn’t I fix the cabinet faster? It was just-- every day, more yelling, more tension. And so,” Draco said, kicking at the water, “I sort of snapped. One day I yelled back. I told him he was an idiot and I told him he was wrong, and I couldn’t stop. I yelled at him until my voice was hoarse, and then I set fire to a portrait of my great-grandfather.” He stepped even closer to the water, turning away from Harry. “The next morning my mother calmly told me over tea and biscuits that they would no longer be financially supporting me. She said I have the rest of this school year to straighten out my values or I can find my own place to stay.” Draco laughed sharply. “So I suppose the answer to your question would be no. I do not still think those things. But I used to, and that was-- that was wrong.” Harry was smart enough to recognize an apology when he heard one.

“It’s okay,” said Harry simply. Draco turned back, looking at him, half surprised and half relieved, eyes a bit red. Then he smiled weakly and sat down, the toes of his shoes grazing the water’s edge, and Harry sat next to him, their knees touching. They sat there until the sun was gone and the stars glittered bright in the lake. Then they returned to the castle a little bit before eighth year curfew. The topic didn’t require any more discussion. 

—————————————

They spent even more time together after that. One day, sitting at breakfast with the Gryffindors, Draco snickered and swiped some toast from Harry’s plate. Ron and Hermione froze, staring at Harry with the demeanor of two people preparing to defuse a bomb. But Harry just laughed, hit Draco on the arm, and stole some of his bacon. Hermione narrowed her eyes and tilted her head as if she was examining a new animal species. Ron had a sudden coughing fit. 

Harry usually _hated_ people taking his food. His friends knew well that if anyone took food from his plate, he would withdraw into a funk for the day, snapping at anyone who tried to speak to him. It stemmed from his time with the Dursleys; the second someone took his food he thought of Dudley with his fat mouth and strong hands. But somehow, with Draco, it was different. It wasn’t a problem. Draco took Harry’s food because he thought it would make Harry laugh. And it did. Harry didn’t mind.

—————————————

Harry emerged from his bathroom one day, towelling his hair, smelling of Draco’s shower gel and deep in thought about the book that Draco had lent him the other day. Ron was off with Hermione, leaving the room to Harry and, by extension, Draco, so Harry wasn’t surprised to see Draco lounging on his bed with one of Harry’s Quidditch catalogues, hair wet from his own shower. He _was_ surprised, however, to see Draco wearing an emerald jumper emblazoned with a large H and nothing else but boxer briefs, his impossibly long pale legs crossed primly. After Draco was gone and had changed back into the clothes which he had mysteriously and temporarily lost, Harry picked up the soft jumper from the bed. It smelled of Draco. Vanilla, clean clothes, aftershave, and something comforting that Harry couldn’t quite place. When Harry put it on, it was still damp on the inside.

He wore it every day for the next week and couldn’t stop pulling the collar up to his nose. When the elves finally got a hold of it and washed out the smell, Harry frowned at it and stuffed it into the back of his drawer. 

—————————————

One night in early winter, the two of them were in the Slytherin common room very late at night, Draco sitting on a cushion with Harry’s head in his lap, fingers running through his hair, smoothing it back and then forwards meticulously. 

“Earlier this year,” said Harry, staring into the fire, “I kept thinking a lot about purpose.”

“Purpose?” said Draco, fingers not faltering.

“Like, what we’re here for. Why we live our lives.”

“That’s pretty deep. Honestly, Harry, I didn’t think you were capable of abstract thought.” Harry liked when Draco teased him. It let him know Draco didn’t think of him as some untouchable celebrity. He had faults. He was just Harry.

Harry chuckled, and went on, “Well, it seems like everyone’s got their lives on track. All of my friends know what they’re doing after school. They know what life means to them. But I feel like my life _was_ school, you know? Defeating Voldemort--” Draco’s fingers did falter then, but got right back on track, “--was my purpose. It was what I’d been born to do. My entire life people kept telling me that I would defeat the Dark Lord. But that’s done. I’ve finished. He’s dead.”

“All true statements,” said Draco sagely.

“But what now? The story is over. I don’t even know where I’m supposed to go from here. People wanted me to marry Ginny, but we’re done with, and I’m pretty sure her and Luna have been flirting in their own weird way. People wanted me to be an Auror, but I’m tired, Draco. I’m done with fighting. I don’t want to defeat any more Dark Lords. I think I’ve finished that chapter of my life. So what now? My whole life has been about one thing. I don’t even know what I like, what I want. I’m not even a _person_ , really.”

“Well, that’s just ridiculous,” Draco said airily, “Of course you are.” Harry gave a noncommittal grunt. “You’re Harry. You love treacle tart, you’re wonderful at Charms, and you are the best seeker I’ve ever played against. You have terrible taste in clothing and you cannot take care of your hair properly. You’re funny and way too nice for your own good. Sometimes you daydream so much I’m sure you’ve traveled to another universe. And you’re my friend, obviously.” _Obviously_. He said it like it was the truest statement ever spoken. Harry cracked a small smile. Draco laughed weakly. “If anyone’s not a person it’s me. My whole life has just been a mirror of my father’s. Be posh, Draco, be perfect. Keep your collars pressed, Draco. Be a perfect little Death Eater. Won’t the Dark Mark look so pretty on your arm, Draco? Someday you’ll be a big grown Death Eater with a big grown Death Eater wife and perfect Death Eater children. Won’t that be just wonderful? Won’t it, Draco?” Draco’s fingers pressed a little too hard against Harry’s scalp. “Well, it wasn’t wonderful. And now I’ve no place to live, no money, and an big ugly tattoo. Lot of good it’s got me.”

“Not a person?” Harry said incredulously. “Draco, you’re the most human person I know.”

“Aren’t those synonyms? Did you just say I’m a person person?”

“Shut up,” said Harry. “You’re Draco. You have perfect hair except after a Quidditch match. You read books quicker than anyone I know, even Hermione, and your handwriting is perfect. You do the meanest Severus Snape impression in the school. You make stupid, hilarious jokes, and you’re much too loud, and you talk in class. You’re great at potions and you brag about it all the time. You’re great at Charms, too, but you’ll never admit it. You’re--” Harry faltered, unsure, but pressed on anyway, “You’re like the silver lining, on clouds. Maybe you seem cold and distant, but nobody can take their eyes off of you. And when someone gets close to you they can feel how warm you are. Silver lining is just sunlight behind the clouds, you know? You’re human. You just like to hide it sometimes.”

By the end of this, Draco’s fingers had slowed to a stop. When Harry looked up, he saw Draco trying hard not to grin and failing miserably. Harry felt himself melt. “So maybe we are people,” Draco admitted. He bit his lip, which was entirely too distracting, and went on, “But where does that get us? Where do we go from here? What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, and was surprised to find that not knowing didn’t worry him as much as it had before. Harry had his entire life ahead of him. Maybe he didn’t need to know what it would bring. Maybe he didn’t even want to. “Whatever we do, we can do it together, right?”

“Yes,” said Draco, fingers drifting over Harry’s jawline, “That does sound nice.”

Harry took Draco’s wrist in his hand, bringing his long fingers to his face. When he brushed his lips over Draco’s fingertips, one by one, he wasn’t nervous. And when Draco blushed the color of a ripe strawberry, Harry grinned at him and sat up, turning to face him, hands on either side of Draco’s legs. “I’ve got a house,” said Harry, a bit distracted by Draco’s sharp grey eyes, which were focused intently on his lips. “From my godfather. I inherited it. If you haven’t got anywhere to stay, maybe...” Harry trailed off.

Draco leaned into Harry and kissed him, softly at first, easily, just like their conversations, just like all the time they spent together. Harry’s breath hitched and he pressed back. When Draco pulled away a bit, face even redder than before, he said, “That sounds incredible.” He kissed him again, shortly. “We’ll find our purpose, Harry. With me there, even you can’t mess it up.” 

“You’re ridiculous,” laughed Harry, and Draco pouted. “I love it.” He ran his fingers through the hair at the nape of Draco’s neck, then pulled him forward. There wasn’t much talking for a good while after that.

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to drarrysgirl for giving me the permission to take her ideas and run with them, and big thanks to YOU for reading this! If you feel so inclined, you can check out the song East of Eden by Zella Day, which was the song I wrote much of this fic to. Honestly, I wasn't listening to the lyrics, so they probably don't apply, but the vibes of the song definitely fit.
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic don't forget to drop a comment telling me what you liked. If you didn't, don't forget to drop a comment telling me what you hated. If you haven't read the fic and just scrolled to this notes section at the end, then that is really very odd. Why did you do that?


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